


Frank Gallagher: Loving husband, Devoted father

by Enochianess



Series: Dirtiest white boy in America [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Related, Explicit Sexual Content, Fights, First Time, Frank Gallagher: loving husband devoted father, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecure Mickey, M/M, POV Mickey Milkovich, Robbery, Rough Sex, Season/Series 01, Smoking, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4291152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 1 Episode 7 - Mickey focused</p><p>This kid had been in his fucking head for weeks now, like a damn parasite, and now here he was, laying on his bed, Mickey sat atop his chest. Ian's eyes fell for a moment, lowering to stare at the quite prominent bulge in Mickey's pants, before flickering back up. </p><p>And then, everything went to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frank Gallagher: Loving husband, Devoted father

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get enough of Mickey Milkovich and I don't think his side of the story was explored enough on the show, so I'm writing his story canonically episode by episode and adding and expanding upon the scenes as I see fit (And yes, this does include smut, because their kiss and sex scenes were virtually nonexistent). All the works will be named after the episodes in the show.
> 
> I'd really appreciate your feedback on this because I want to make sure I'm writing Mickey as accurately as possible. If this is going to be as good as I want it to be, I need to quite literally become him for a couple hours a day.  
> Feel free to contact me: http://enochianess.tumblr.com
> 
> *Gives you the bird because we're in the shameless fandom and this is the best way of expressing my affection and love for you all*

A damn Cup-a-Soup. That was the only thing Mickey had gone in for. He wasn't trying to piss off towel-head, or even to catch a glimpse of Gallagher. But, for whatever reason, it was today that Kash decided to bust a nut and pull a fucking gun on him. Mickey quirked an eyebrow at him.

"You fucking serious?" Mickey grumbled.

It was just so fucking hilarious. The faggot's hands were shaking as he released the safety. 

Mickey sighed. "Put the damn gun away before I break your nose."

Kash stared, defiant but quite obviously terrified. He wasn't going to shoot. Mickey knew by now when a man was being serious about letting one loose. There was a look in their eye - a shift, a darkness - that warned you they were willing to kill. He'd seen it in his dad's eyes often enough. Kash, on the other hand, just looked like a deer in fucking headlights.

"Aight, you asked for it." Mickey shrugged, a smirk pulling at his lips. 

He lurched forwards, grabbing Kash's shirt front in one hand and punching him with the other; once, twice, three times. The gun fell with a clang on to the counter. Mickey hooked a finger under Kash's chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met. 

"You pull a stunt like that again, I'll fucking kill you." He said with a smile.

He slapped a hand - from a distance what would seem almost affectionately - on Kash's cheek and picked up the gun, making sure to grab his Cup-a-Soup before he stormed out the door. 

 

Mickey's heart was pounding, his legs bouncing up and down nervously, as he sat in the car outside the county jail.

Today, Terry Milkovich was being released on probation. Mickey was down state picking him up, whilst back at home Mandy and his brothers were setting up the welcome home party. It was such bullshit. None of them wanted him home. They were all safer when he was locked behind bars. 

Mickey took a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes falling shut as he tried to calm down, slow his breathing. He was fucking exhausted. He hadn't slept more than four hours every night for the past couple weeks. Logically, he knew why that was. He knew why he'd been waking up covered in sweat, and even urine that one time. Mickey couldn't admit to a thing like that. Mickey wasn't allowed to be afraid. Not here. Everyone on the South Side had their shit to deal with. Including him. He just had to get the fuck over it and man up.

 _Maybe it'll be different this time,_ Mandy had said this morning.

The fuck it would. 

He ground his teeth together when he caught sight of his dad walking towards the car, his stern face just as foreboding as he remembered it. He clambered out the car quickly, dropping the end of the cigarette on the floor so he could greet his father.

"Got a fucking smoke?" His dad barked, chucking a bag of something at his chest.

Mickey fumbled in his pocket, handing over the torn packet and plastic lighter. No arguments. Not a word.

Any glimmer of happiness, any feeling of safety he'd experienced over the past couple of months. Gone. 

But the worst thing about the whole ordeal was that weighted feeling of affection blooming in his chest. That need for praise, for acceptance. That need to be the son his dad wanted him to be, to make him proud. He couldn't shake it. Where Terry was concerned, he was  _weak._ Utterly powerless. He knew how fucked up it all was. He knew his dad was abusive. But, even still, Terry was the only parent he'd ever had and he couldn't drop the irrational attachment he had for the man. He'd grown up thinking his dad was some sort of fucking saviour, feeding him and protecting him. Terry taught him how to fight, how to kill, how to defend himself. The fact he also beat Mickey black and blue didn't faze him. It'd always happened, so he figured that was just what he deserved. Of course, as he grew up, he'd begun to feel differently. But that instinctive loyalty to Terry was still there, always simmering away just below the surface, and he hated himself for it. He hated that he could be so desperate for the affection of a man that was constantly breaking him down, shattering him into a million tiny pieces.

 

Mickey was napping, face down on the bed, arm dangling off the mattress, when he was prodded between his shoulder blades with something cold and unrelenting. He'd had zero sleep last night, what with the party and then his dad's loud fucking for what was left of it. Mickey could have killed Iggy and Jamie for paying for all those fucking whores. But, then again, Mickey knew it was highly unlikely he would have slept anyway. He'd been too on edge with his dad awake in the house. It only felt safe falling asleep when he knew his dad was passed out on the couch, unable to come looking for him, unable to wrap those meaty, destructive hands around his throat. 

"What the fuck?" He muttered, lifting his head tiredly to glance at the stupid asshole who'd woken him up.

"I want the gun back, Mickey." Ian said, his breath a little short, tire iron in hand.

"Gallagher?" Mickey couldn't fucking believe this kid.

"The gun."

"All right." He said, rubbing at his eyes as he sat up.

Mickey bent down as if to grab something and then swung back round quickly to land a punch across Gallagher's face. Hell, it felt fucking good to finally dispel some of that restless energy that had been buzzing away beneath his skin.

The redhead grunted, the breath knocked out of him when Mickey slammed him against the wall beside his bed. He pinned the kid down, clambering to straddle him, and shackling his wrists until the tire iron fell onto the bed. Gallagher was fucking stupid to even try this with him.

The two of them struggled, Mickey wrapping an arm around Ian's neck to try fixing him in a headlock. Ian was ROTC though, and he lurched them across the room, flipping Mickey over his shoulder and onto the sofa. He only had the chance for one second's rest before Mickey leapt back up, pushing against Ian until the redhead shoved him against the dresser. Neither of them even noticed the heavy clanging as things fell onto the floor, both too worked up and focused on each other. Ian ran for the bed to grab the tire iron, but Mickey was too fast, settling his weight on top of him again and raising his arm, ready to slam the tire iron into Gallagher's skull.

Mickey panted and then paused a moment, staring at the way Ian's eyes were squeezed closed in anticipation of the finishing blow. He sat, uncertain, as Ian's green eyes opened to gaze bewilderedly back at him. It was strange, how time seemed to suddenly slow, the moment still whilst the rest of the world continued to spin around them. This kid had been in his fucking head for weeks now, like a damn parasite, and now here he was, laying on his bed, Mickey sat atop his chest. Ian's eyes fell for a moment, lowering to stare at the quite prominent bulge in Mickey's pants, before flickering back up. 

And then, everything went to hell. 

Mickey was suddenly yanking his vest over his head, shuffling back so Ian could clamber off the bed and slide out of his over-shirt. Mickey moves towards him, like there's some kind of fucking gravitational pull between the two of them, and helps tug off Ian's black shirt. It was like a frenzy. Mickey's skin was fucking  _burning,_ his breath coming out in sharp gasps, his hands shaking in their haste to divest them both of their clothing. 

Mickey got back on the bed, pulling on his sweatpants clumsily, not putting up a fight when Ian tried to help him, fingers catching on the skin of Mickey's hips and thighs as the fabric was tugged down and off. Ian was sat back on his haunches, staring down at Mickey's now naked form, letting his gaze roam over his pale skin. Mickey couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand to be looked at like that, especially not with the expression of fucking wonder on Gallagher's face. Mickey would have yelled at him to stop being such a fucking girl, but then Ian crawled over him and leant down, eyes closed. Mickey twisted his head sharply, a hand pressing against the centre of Ian's chest to stop him from getting any closer. 

"Mick-" Ian whispered, eyes confused and maybe a little hurt. 

Mickey glared at him, his head shaking softly from side to side. "Lets skip that part, huh?" 

Ian stared at him a moment longer, and then he nodded, leaning back so he could tug his own pants and boxers off. He was about to ask Mickey how he wanted to do this, but Mickey had already rolled over on to his stomach, his hand scrabbling through the drawer in his bedside table until he pulled out the condom and lube.

Mickey was trying to be cool about this. He was trying to act like fucking dudes was something he did all the damn time, like the very thought of it didn't usually simultaneously give him a boner and a panic attack. He could feel his breath hitching, climbing, as Gallagher rummaged around behind him with the lube. But then, long, slender fingers were running from the tip to the base of his spine, and he felt himself melt.

"Get on your knees." Ian whispered, grabbing a pillow and pushing it beneath Mickey's now raised hips to ease the angle.

Mickey waited, desperately trying to stop himself from squirming impatiently. And then...  _holy fuck._

Ian's finger was circling his hole, teasing, until Mickey relaxed and he could push it all the way in. It fucking burned, and Mickey was mortified by the tears that were gathering at the corners of his eyes, but damn was it the most perfect burn he'd ever felt. He pushed back against the feeling, his breath stuttering when Ian added a second and began to scissor the digits, stretching him open. Mickey clawed at the mattress beneath him, fisting the blanket the moment he'd got a hold of it. He thrust his hips down, hoping to dispel at least some of the pressure in his groin. 

"Not yet." Ian said softly, gripping Mickey's hip with one hand until he stilled. 

"Will you just get the fuck on me already?" Mickey snapped, turning to bury his face in the mattress when Ian's finger rubbed against that tiny bundle of nerves deep inside him, not wanting Gallagher to hear the moan that fell from his lips.

And, seriously, _what the fuck was that?_ _Why did he feel like he was on fucking fire?_

Mickey heard the tell-tale sound of the lube bottle opening and clicking shut, and it made him shiver in anticipation. It was overwhelming, the way Ian folded himself over him, thighs pressed against the backs of Mickey's, and pushed the tip of his cock inside him. Mickey bit down on his forearm, nodding shortly when Ian asked if he was okay. He wasn't fucking okay at all, but at the same time, he was in fucking nirvana. 

Ian bottomed out, his breath harsh in Mickey's ear, and paused, giving Mickey a chance to adjust. 

"Move." Mickey rasped. " _Fucking move."_

Mickey's breath stuttered as Ian began to pull back out, slowly, excruciatingly, so he could feel every inch of loss, and then slammed back in. Mickey choked out a laugh, his face scrunched up in pleasure, as he let himself be fucked by Gallagher at a blistering pace. He'd had no idea how much he wanted this. How much he'd wanted Ian Gallagher, out of all the fucking people in the world. 

"Fuck- Mick, _you feel so fucking good_." Ian gasped behind him, his hands gripping at Mickey's hips tight enough to bruise. 

The headboard was slamming against the wall, making a rhythmic thumping that really should have been alarming, but Mickey was too far gone to care. He was rocking his hips back shamelessly, meeting every thrust of Ian's, and groaning openly now in response to Ian's own grunts. The whole thing felt fucking insane. It was so fucking dangerous because, he knew now, that he wasn't going to be able to live without it. He was gonna chase after this feeling all the damn time. 

Ian plastered his chest across Mickey's back, their slick skin sliding together, and Mickey was surprised by the way he reached behind him to tug at Ian's hair, pulling him closer still. It was inconceivable to him that he wanted that contact, that he wanted to be connected so closely to the redhead. But he did. _Fuck,_ he did.

Mickey felt one of Ian's hands slip between his body and the mattress, flattening on his chest and sliding down slowly over his stomach until he could wrap his fingers around his cock. Mickey whined, his hips stuttering, at the new sensation. He wasn't sure whether to thrust forward into Ian's grip, or rock back onto his dick. He couldn't even fucking think, not with the way his body was humming, the heat in the pit of his stomach reaching an almost unbearable height.

" _Ian-_ I- I-" Mickey stuttered, his mouth falling open in a silent cry as Ian brushed his thumb over the slit, sending him tumbling over that precipice.

He felt himself lock down around the redhead, felt the way Ian's body spasmed above him as he reached his own climax, nails cutting into the slight dip of Mickey's waist. 

"Shit." He heard Ian mutter as he pulled out, rolling over to collapse beside Mickey. 

Mickey pulled the pillow from beneath his hips, tossing it on to the floor, and mirrored Ian's position. It was silent for a moment, nothing stirring the air except their gradually slowing breathing. Mickey felt sated and relaxed in a way he couldn't ever remember feeling. Until-

 

Heavy footsteps, dragging across the wooden flooring. Coughing, heavy and cracked, from a smoker's lungs. 

Terry swung Mickey's bedroom door open, walking through to the bathroom without sparing the two naked boys even a glance. Mickey held his breath, heart in his throat, as he listened to his dad pissing and farting. He could tell Ian was just as terrified, his body tense in the bed beside him. 

"Mandy's making eggs." His dad said as he sauntered back out. 

And then, much to Mickey's horror, Terry pauses and turns to look at them. 

"Put some clothes on. You two look like a couple of fags." He grumbles, and then just walks out.

Mickey can't fucking believe it. He runs his hands through his hair, his pulse beginning to fall back into a steady rhythm, and looks over at Ian.

 _Shit, they'd been lucky._  

 

Mickey pulled his clothes on quickly, feeling a little awkward now in the silence after the storm. He could hear Ian getting dressed quietly behind him, and he felt a slight panic building in his chest. He didn't want this  _thing_ to be over. He wanted to do it again. So, as a peace offering, in the hopes Ian would maybe fuck him into oblivion at least one more time, Mickey grabbed the gun from the dresser and tossed it on to the bed.

Ian turned, slowly, his face an open book. 

Mickey stared at him, running his thumb over his bottom lip. He felt vulnerable in front of the redhead. He felt  _weak._ But not in the way he was used to feeling, not like he did with his dad. No, this was a different kind of weak. Ian Gallagher  _knew things,_ he had a power over Mickey that no one else had. And it fucking terrified him. Which is why, when Ian stepped forward, chest bare, to try and kiss him in a post-coital press of lips, Mickey jolted away.

"Kiss me and I'll cut your fucking tongue out." He threatened, leaving the room and all that had happened behind him.

He needed to shut it the fuck down while he still could. He couldn't be that much of a fucking idiot again. Not if he wanted to stay alive.

He shuffled into the kitchen, sitting beside his dad at the table to eat his eggs. 

He could hear Ian talking to Mandy, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't feeling a little bit paranoid about what the redhead was saying. The front door fell shut with a distant thud, and Mickey stared down at his plate. The eggs tasted like fucking ash. 

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I do not take credit for the dialogue from the show; I have simply used it to aid my own story and exploration of Mickey.  
> The credit for those parts goes deservedly to the writers.


End file.
